


Five Times Neal (Almost) Meets Dean Winchester

by n00blici0us



Category: Supernatural, White Collar
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-27
Updated: 2011-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:05:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n00blici0us/pseuds/n00blici0us
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the five times that Neal Caffrey almost meets Dean Winchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I. Trying to steal a jewelry box in the boonies_

The first time Neal met Dean Winchester, he didn’t know that he had met him. Technically, they didn’t actually meet. Neal just witnessed the aftermath of the Winchester brothers sweeping through town. Neal had this plan to work a heist in this Podunk town in the middle of nowhere, in a small museum that had one real claim to fame: an antique jewelry box with a dark and sordid history behind it. History claimed that all those who owned it ended up coming into an astounding amount of wealth before an abrupt and catastrophic reversal of fortune found them, usually leading to violent and messy death. Neal didn’t want to own it. He just wanted to steal it and sell it to someone who, for whatever reason, had no fear the stories about the box.

He had spent a month creating a replica of the box that would fool the museum curator who barely glanced at the box beyond checking that yes, it was still there every night and the occasional tourist (here Neal stressed in his head how occasional the tourist was when he caught himself awake for the second night in a row trying to match the tint of color on the bottom of the box, for god’s sake). So yeah, it had taken him a month and it was pretty good, definitely good enough to fool the right people.

Thus, when the night of the heist came, and Neal dressed in his usual heist outfit (black turtleneck, slim fitting black trousers, black socks and a fabulous pair of Italian loafers that had served him well through many heists), ready to slip past the security cameras, heard the museum’s security alarm blaring, he let out a heartfelt, “Fuck.” From his perch on a nearby roof, he could see right into the main gallery where the box was being displayed and yep, there it was, prominently empty. Neal scrubbed a hand over his face in frustration; now what was he going to do with a perfectly good replica of the already stolen box?

By the time the flashing lights of the police cars arrived, Neal had already slipped away into the dark of the night.

The next day’s newspaper headlines were all about how some dark, shadowy burglar had muscled (honest to god, muscled) his way into this little’s town’s one museum and stolen the prized possession. And if the second page had an article about how that same night the museum curator had almost been a victim of a homicidal maniac armed with Satanic texts and a very big knife, but had been rescued at the last minute by a very tall, brown-haired, Good Samaritan—well, Neal didn’t read past the first page about the heist that he most certainly did not pull off.

But he couldn’t help but feel bad for the town losing their one claim to fame, so before he skipped town, Neal made sure to stop by the museum and drop of his box. Because, after all, he did a good job of replicating that damn box and someone should reap the benefits of his work.


	2. Chapter 2

_II. In a bar where smooth talkers aren’t really welcome and Neal can’t really play pool_

So there was this time that Neal remembers every now and then as the time when Peter Burke almost caught him just because Neal has never really been good at pool. Which is almost crazy because Neal is good at most things. But something about pool and all its rules about hitting your ball first before the other balls just drive Neal crazy. So he never tried hustling for money, because he inevitably, legitimately, loses his money. Plus, it’s just quicker and easier to lift someone’s wallet when they’re nice and drunk rather than spending half a night bent over a pool table, and not even in the good way.

When Neal entered the bar, he automatically made a quick scan of the room, checking all the people in it, looking for easy escape routes. Fire exit in the back, next to the restrooms, as well as the possibility of darting into the back room, but he didn’t really relish getting back there just to find a dead end. He sat at the bar, ordering a whiskey sour and water in a tumbler to give himself an air of someone who could drink—and had been drinking—heavily, looking for his next mark. Then he saw them, a group of people playing pool, clinking beers together camaraderie, laughing the open, happy guffaws that could only come with general drunkenness. Neal leaned back against the bar and took a long draw from his glass before setting it down on the counter. He picked up the whiskey and spilled a bit on his shirt.

“Gentlemen,” he drawled (a drawl he had picked up from traveling in Texas for a week and needing to fit in), letting himself stumble a bit as he walked towards them. “How about letting me teach you a thing or two about pool?”

The group of guys stopped for a second and eyed him suspiciously for a moment before one of them clapped him on the back, “Boy, if you think you can keep up…” he trailed off and lifted his bottle in invitation.

Neal stumbled once against him, fingers deftly relieving him of his wallet before saying, “Sure, sure, whoa… Yep I can definitely keep up.”

The other guys chuckled amongst themselves over his inebriation before racking up the balls on the table. “Go ahead, take the first shot.”

Neal walked around the edge of the table to the other side, falling against one more guy in his effort to get to the white ball. “Whoops. Sorry man, I don’t know where my coordination is today.” Pretending to be a stumbling drunk usually wasn’t too hard with the right steps and movements, almost like a dance. This next part was even easier for him—messing up his first few shots on the pool table. He hefted the pool stick in his hand and squinted down at the table. He heard the crack of the stick against the white ball (success!) and watched it roll towards the triangle of balls before breaking them, just barely. No satisfying thunk of balls landing. “Ha, um, not so good with breaking tonight, it seems like.” He sighed. He wished he were better at pool, but his apparent handicap with it made it that much easier to excuse himself from the game and make his way back to the bar, several wallets heavier.

He had just managed to persuade those guys that a few more drinks would improve his game when the door opened again and he glanced over to see Agent Peter Burke standing in the doorway, talking to very tall guy with shaggy brown hair. Neal froze. Peter hadn’t seen him yet, but it wasn’t looking good, what with him standing in the doorway and all. Beside him there lay a leather jacket, the owner presumably having left it to use the restroom. Without really thinking, Neal, keeping his back to the door, slipped it on. Time to make use of the fire exit.

He moved slowly through the crowd of people in the bar towards the restroom, avoiding raising any suspicion before he heard, “Look, there’s my brother now. Dean! Hey Dean!” Neal risked a quick glance behind him, saw the tall guy waving at him as well as the flash of recognition in Peter’s eyes before he took off in a run, pushing his way through the exit and hopping down to the top of the dumpster. He sprinted across the parking lot with Peter about a minute behind him, he guessed, judging by the crowd of people that he would have to make his way through.

In the cover of darkness, Neal let himself become someone just searching for their car, picking one at random and hotwiring it before hauling ass out of there. Damn bars with pool tables. If they weren’t such easy pickings he would stop going.

At the next rest stop that he could risk, Neal let his adrenaline rush out of him and parked the car. He slipped off the jacket, but checked the pockets before abandoning it in the car. Whistling in the night, he set off in search of his next mode of transportation.

Later, at his hotel (checked in as Hector Aframian), he emptied his own pockets and surveyed his loot. He picked up the wallet taken from the leather jacket and opened it to stare at an ID picture that showed a handsome face with intensely green eyes. Dean Smith. Huh. Nice looking guy. Must’ve been his brother, the tall Sasquatch that was with Peter. Shrugging, Neal burrowed under the covers and tossed the wallet aside with the others. Someday he’d have to thank Dean for letting him blend in with the crowd and maybe punch him in the arm for giving him away at the last minute due to some fluke of fate that had his brother talking to Peter Burke. His last thought as he drifted off to sleep was, “I wonder what they do and how they know Peter.”


	3. Chapter 3

_III. Booking_

Neal was in booking at a police station in New Carrollton, waiting to have his information taken and processed, having taken the fall for Kate (they wanted to keep her record clean for as long as possible). There were too many unshowered, leering men for Neal to be comfortable, but he consoled himself that at least it wasn’t Kate in here.

And then the booming voice of the guard at the door—“Dean Winchester? Where is Dean Winchester?”—heralded an explosion of confusion, literally. One of the back walls by the cells just crumbled away, kicking up a huge dust storm. Neal could just make out the outline of a black muscle car through the haze. The hallway burst into activity.

Neal slipped out the pick that he had tongued in his cheek, let it fall down into his hands and freed himself from the cuffs. Then he released them onto the floor and casually strolled out the front door while everyone inside was busy looking for a “Dean Winchester.”


	4. Chapter 4

_IV. When he owes Mozzie a favor_

“Oh come on, Neal, it’s not that bad. Just make these 2 IDs and that’s it. Seriously. I won’t ask you for something about for at least a month, if not more.” Mozzie’s voice had a suspicious whine to it.

“Why can’t you do it?” Neal asked as he absentmindedly brushed another clean line across the canvas. “I’m working on my art.” He adopted a snooty tone as he stressed the word art. Once in a blue moon he actually felt inspired to make original art, an original Anthony Havemford piece and of course Mozzie picks today to ask for a favor.

“I would, but you know that I absolutely have to move my stuff from Wednesday into Saturday, today. Tuesday’s already been compromised and if I don’t move Wednesday then Thursday might really be in danger. And I can’t give up Thursday.” Mozzie peered at Neal over his glasses. “Come on man, do it for me.”

“Who are these kids to you anyway?”

Mozzie snorted at that. “Kids. Listen to yourself. They’re your age, you know.” Then he added quickly, “But try to add a few more years to their IDs. Makes them seem like more credible park rangers.”

Neal stopped painting, hand suspended in midair. “Park rangers? I’m being interrupted from painting another Anthony Havemford piece—which will sell by the way, if only to an old folk’s home or something—and you want me to make park ranger IDs? It’s not even something difficult!”

“I know, I know, but I owe them a favor and this is what they need apparently. Well I don’t owe them a favor, so to speak. Really it’s more of a favor for Mr. B. Good man. He really helped me out in a pinch. There were these women and I swear they must’ve bewitched me or something because how else would I explain why I was giving them that ancient Vedic text that I stole from that gallery, remember?” Mozzie sighed in remembrance, hands tracing out the curves of the women in the air.

Neal laughed at his friend, setting down his brush. “Fine, fine, I’ll do it, if only because I remember how messed up you were after those women. They were… like Veela or something. Kate was mad that she had to take care of you.”

“Harry Potter, really?” Mozzie waved his hand dismissively. “You know what, I don’t even want to know. Just, please. 2 days. They need it in 2 days.”

“Uh-huh,” said Neal, already packing away his paints. “I’ll have it finished before I meet Alex for the Robinson heist. I’ll get to meet these people so important to Mr. B. Or, maybe even Mr. B himself?” He looked questioningly at Mozzie.

“Nah,” Mozzie said. “Mr. B has a terrible temper and really only cares for his dog, Rumsfield.” He frowned then, “Actually, strike that. He curses at that old dog. Samuel Cole and Dean Williams. Colorado Park Rangers.”

Since Neal really does owe Mozzie this favor (and probably even more), he made the IDs, not just out of curiosity to meet the guys. But then Kate got back early from her job with the Hendersons and Neal had to scramble to fit her into the Robinson heist while still placating Alex, which moved up his timetable, so regretfully he had to leave the ID cards with Mozzie to deliver. He privately thought that it was such a shame since one had such dazzling, almost familiar, eyes and the other had such a bright smile.


	5. Chapter 5

_V. When he wants to boost a car_

Once, Neal likes to remember fondly, he almost boosted a really sweet ride. Like really really sweet. It was a black, Impala, a hulk of a muscle car. Neal’s mouth actually watered with the thought of getting his hands on it and driving it around. Most of the time, Neal never understood fascination with cars. Better to lust over a beautiful piece of art (or a beautiful person) rather than a piece of metal that could twist and turn around you in the most painful of manners. But this car… it really was something and it spoke to Neal.

So yeah, Neal really really wanted to boost it. He wanted to steal it and rumble down the highway, windows rolled down, wind ruffling his hair. It would be the ultimate freedom, just him and the road stretching in front of him.

But he didn’t. And later, retelling the story to Mozzie and Kate about the gorgeous car, he wouldn’t be able to explain why. He just knew that he saw someone lurking in the shadows, hands stuffed in his pockets, collar upturned against the cold chill of the air and his face looked so sad, his eyes were so filled with anguish that Neal knew that this car, so lovingly restored and taken care of, was something indescribably important to him.

And Neal understands needing something to hold on to when everything else crumbles around. It’s why he clings to his paintbrushes and his paints, even when he can’t think of anything new to paint, even when he is not working a forgery. It’s why he and Kate have that stupid bottle of Bordeaux for each other. It’s how they can hold on to each other when all else falls apart around them. And damned if he’s going to take it away from someone else.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus: the one time they did meet.

Neal was walking in the streets of New York, picking out marks just to keep his mind occupied. He hated the chafe of the anklet and wasn’t sure if he’d ever get used to it. Out of the pan, into the fire, he kept thinking to himself. What fresh hell had he gotten into? Would Peter just constantly always hold the threat of prison over his head? Was he doomed to four years of, “Look what I can do if you don’t keep your nose clean.” Or, “It’s prison if you can’t solve this case.” His deal could end up sucking, mightily.

Then he brightened up a bit, almost absentmindedly slipping his hand inside the next anonymous guy that he passed—someone tall by the shadow that he cast—pulling out the wallet in one smooth movement. If it got too bad, he could always cut off the anklet and just run.

But just as quickly, his good mood vanished as he realized that meant he’d have to leave Kate to her fate with the man with the ring. And as he was brooding moodily over this prospect, he felt a sharp tug on his shoulder followed by a rough, “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

Neal turned around and blinked at him innocently.

“You’ve got my brother’s wallet.” The guy stared down at him with green eyes that looked vaguely familiar.

“I’ve got… what?” Neal found it best in these situations to play it as cool as possible while slipping the wallet back to its rightful owner.

The guy nodded again, hand still firmly on Neal’s shoulder. “In your jacket inside pocket. You’re pretty good, slipping it out without him noticing. He wanted to say, forget it, but he was always kind of a sissy.”

Neal’s mind raced, trying to figure out a way to maneuver his hand into his pocket (where he did in fact have the wallet) and then somehow slip it into his back pocket. Distraction maybe. “I’m sure you’re mistaken,” he purred, letting his voice drop down seductively. “I’ll let you make up your manhandling and accusations over a cup of coffee.”

The guy let out a short bark of laughter. “The cajones you have.” He moved his hand down from Neal’s shoulder, letting it clasp loosely around his wrist. “Tell you what,” he continued, his hand not gripping too firmly, but still tense enough to let Neal know the strength that he kept contained, “You return me the wallet; we’ll call it even and if I see you again, I’ll buy you more than a cup of coffee.”

Neal eyed him speculatively for a minute, discarding the idea of simply breaking free of his grasp because he feared that that action might mean actually breaking his wrist. “Is that a promise?” He couldn’t help the frisson of interest that sparked through him. This guy was broad, clearly built, muscular, and had a sense of humor, all of the things that he and Kate searched for when they were off gallivanting together.

“I always keep my promises,” the guy said, keeping his eyes firmly glued to Neal’s face.

Neal slowly moved his free hand towards his jacket, “Shouldn’t I keep something as collateral?” His fingers flicked open the wallet and read, “Sam Wesson?” He made a face. It sounded like a fake name.

Before the guy could reply, another tall guy walked over and joined them. “God Dean, I told you to leave it alone, not spend forever chatting up the pickpocket.” He looked at their joined hands and let out a groan of frustration and made a pissy face. Stretching out ridiculously long limbs, he plucked his wallet from Neal’s hand and then turned to the other one, Dean, and said, “There. Can we go now?” He tapped his watch, “Kind of on a schedule here.” He lowered his voice and said pointedly, “Sunset, remember?”

Dean, who had been distracted by the entrance of his brother, turned back to Neal and released his wrist. “Yeah, Sammy, let’s go,” he said, with one last lingering glance at Neal.

Neal, for his part, remained perfectly still as the two started to walk away, but at the last minute called after them, unable to resist himself, “Hey, what’s your name? You know, for coffee?”

Dean turned around and said, “Dean. Dean Winchester.” Then he winked at Neal. “See you around, kid.”

Neal watched them walk away, hearing the taller one, Sam, say to Dean, “Jeez, can’t leave you alone for a minute without you trying to pick up someone.”

Dean gave Sam a good-natured cuff on the back of the head, “Shut up Sammy. He was kind of like sex on legs.”

“Don’t call me Sammy, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Neal smiled and started walking in the other direction, the brothers’ bantering lost in the distance and the sea of New Yorkers between them. He hoped he would see them again.


End file.
